


Where The Lonely Hearts Go

by oswhine



Series: Four [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5288375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswhine/pseuds/oswhine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas. Harry Potter is lonely but won't admit it. A chance meeting with an old something changes all his plans...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where The Lonely Hearts Go

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to the song 'All Alone on Christmas' by Darlene Love, which is not mandatory listening for this fic.

It was Christmas Day, but so early in the morning you could barely call it that, and Harry Potter was the only one sitting at the bar in the Leaky Cauldron. He was hunched over his firewhiskey, a drink he’d gotten a taste for in the fall on the lips of another man. But that was in the past now. Along with a whole lot of other shit. 

Harry took a sip of his drink. The Weasleys had invited him for Christmas, as always, but he couldn’t face it, Ginny and him avoiding each other’s eyes, everyone aware of their break, knowing that despite the connotations of it being a short period without each other, the literal meaning of ‘break’ was to shatter beyond repair. 

The bell above the door, enchanted to sound like sleigh bells for the festive season, jingled as a customer came in. Harry didn’t look up. He didn’t want to be recognized, didn’t want those curious stares, wondering what _the_ Harry Potter was doing in a bar on Christmas, alone. But he was interested to know who’s life was as sad as his. 

The person sat at the opposite side of the bar, as far away from Harry as they could get. Harry tried to examine them out of the corner of his eye, but his glasses got in the way. 

“Firewhiskey.” 

Harry felt as if he’d been plunged in cold water. He was sober with a snap. He knew that voice. He replayed it in his mind on the darkest nights. 

“Malfoy.” 

The other man jumped at Harry’s low voice, but not when he turned and saw who was staring him down. He knew that voice, too. 

“Potter.” 

Tom, the landlord, a Santa hat perched festively on his thinning hair, nervously eyed the two men as he set Malfoy’s firewhiskey down on the bar. He retreated to his back room before they could exchange another word. 

“Haven’t we got past that?” Malfoy asked. Harry noticed his face was particularly pale, dark ghosts under his rain coloured eyes. 

“Past what?” 

“Surnames. We’re not boys anymore.” He took a gulp of firewhiskey. 

“Fine. Draco.” He tried the name out. It sounded foreign in his mouth, bitter. 

“Harry.” 

Harry shook his head. “No, that just doesn’t stick. It doesn’t feel right. You’ll always be Malfoy to me.” 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and moved a seat over so that he was closer to Harry. “Even after what we’ve done?” He said fiercely. 

Harry glanced at the door to the backroom. Malfoy caught his look. 

“Oh, that’s right, always-perfect-Potter, hates to ruin his golden reputation.” Malfoy set his glass down, hard, on the surface of the bar. “Guess what? You’ve already dirtied it, drinking alone. It won’t even matter now that you’re gay. Wait til Rita Skeeter hears about this,” he said, his breath thick and hot. 

“Wait, Malfoy - “ Harry reached an instinctive hand out and caught him on the shoulder. Malfoy looked down at it, his lips pressed together. Harry couldn’t decipher his expression. 

“It’s time to decide what you want, Potter,” he said softly. 

But Harry couldn’t tell him, not now, in the bar full of unseen eyes, with Tom standing just behind his door with bated breath. 

“Meet me outside that coffee shop later,” he said under his breath, but Malfoy yanked his arm free of his grip. 

“‘Later’? What’s wrong with now? Why don’t you live in the moment, Potter? For once? That’s what’s wrong with you, isn’t it, you’re so haunted by the past you can’t live now. Get over yourself. You’re not the only one who’s suffered.” He drained the rest of his drink and stalked out of the pub, the bell ringing merrily again as he left, sweeping a cold winter wind inside as the door closed behind him. 

Harry was torn between going after him and staying here, in the dusky pub. 

He stayed. 

~ 

But when he left later, after his third firewhiskey, his insides burning, his feet, trudging through the dirty snow, led him to that coffee shop. It was closed, of course, a sign in the window telling onlookers to have a happy holiday. The street was quiet too. Malfoy wasn’t there. 

The firewhiskey had put too much hope in him. He stared inside the window for a moment, that table where they’d sat just two months ago, burning their mouths on Muggle coffee. 

“I was out of line.” 

He whirled around. There was Malfoy, standing in the middle of the road, hands shoved in his pockets and not quite meeting his eyes. 

“Yeah, you were. You have no idea - “ 

“I know, the things you saw. What happened to you. I don’t. I” - he choked - “I’m sorry.” 

There was a still silence in the street for a moment, Malfoy scuffing his shoe against the pavement. 

“So, why are you all alone on Christmas?” 

“It’s a choice. My parents wanted me to come - they’ve really settled down into a quiet life, after - everything. My mother’s taken up knitting. My father’s got into taxidermy. They’re happy.” 

“Then why didn’t you want to go home?” 

“I feel trapped there. They suffocate me. Not as much as they used to, but still - the memories are enough.” 

Harry nodded. “‘I’m not the only one who’s suffered.’” He liked this open Malfoy. 

Malfoy flushed. “What about you? Why aren’t you celebrating with your army of fans and admirers? Don’t you get love letters on the daily?” 

Harry looked away. He did used to get a lot of love letters from strangers. Ginny had thought they were funny, had read them aloud in silly voices. But they embarrassed him. He’d had to contact the Ministry, direct his mail through them. 

To Malfoy, he explained his situation. 

“And there’s no one else for you to spend the holiday with?” 

“Everyone will be there. There’s nowhere else for me to go.” 

“Except to dive into a bottle of firewhiskey,” Malfoy finished for him. “Y’know, Potter, forget the face of a wizarding generation; you’re the poster boy for self-pity.” 

“Funny.” 

“How about a firewhiskey? For old time’s sake. What do you say? I mean, I know you’re already drunk and having more will just increase your level of self-pity, but it’s Christmas, and I’m in a sentimental mood. So just say yes.” 

“Yes.” 

~ 

Malfoy’s apartment was much like he’d remembered it, but messier: two empty firewhiskey bottles, one leaning against the other for support, sat on the coffee table; one of the couch cushions had fallen on the floor; the garbage bin was overflowing, snack wrappers littering the ground around it, and a sock was draped on the back of the couch. 

“Sorry for the mess,” Malfoy said, peeling off his winter jacket and tossing it to the floor, careless. He got the firewhiskey and tucked the sock into the couch, sitting beside Harry. 

“So.” He tilted his head expectantly. “What’s going to happen now?” 

Harry looked at him, taking a cautious sip of firewhiskey. “I don’t know.” 

“Well, why don’t we just cut to the chase? Like I said, I’m in a sentimental mood…” he leaned forward, his hair falling in front of his face, his chin yearning towards Harry’s.

“And it’s Christmas,” Harry finished, letting his teeth tug against the other man’s lower lip, gently but purposefully, and Malfoy’s hands were tangled in his hair, and it was Christmas, and he wasn’t alone.


End file.
